


Letter to God

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Also fluff, Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 07:52:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1379779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone once told Rose Lalonde that letter writing helps, and her mother needs to hear this. </p>
<p>This is a really old piece of work that I did when I first got into Homestuck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letter to God

It was snowing outside when Rose Lalonde sat down at her desk and picked up a pencil. Nothing had happened, nothing had brought this up, but she felt the need to do it. With a sigh, she put the writing utensil to the blank page and began to scrawl it out.

“Mom,  
I hardly know what to begin this letter with, let alone what its contents are going to read. I’ve thought it over and over again with a plethora of mixed emotions that I don’t plan on thinking about again until long after you and I have parted for the last time. But they need to be brought up now, before I shove them into the deepest corner of my mind for the remainder of my existence, the way I’ve done my entire life thus far.

You haven’t tried, have you? Is being a real parent just too much for you to handle? Is it so entirely incomprehensible that I need you on a daily basis just as much as you need me when you’re belligerently whimpering in the dead of night about how alone you are? So difficult to grasp that I’m more of a parent here? You feed me, yes, you clean the house, sure, but those things don’t entitle being a caregiver, you have to show you care in order to collect that title. Where were you when I fell off my bike at seven years old and broke my finger? You were too drunk to understand a thing that happened, and only the next morning after I demanded you look at it before your second martini, did you bother taking me to the doctor.

But how many times have I stumbled upon your drunkenly unconscious body and had to put out your cigarette before you burnt the house down, or had to pry a bottle of foul smelling vodka from your flaccid fingers after you decided a martini glass would be too classy? And then in more recent years, how many times have I had to clean up your vomit and get you into bed? Can you count, or even recall, those events? No one should have to do that for their parent, let alone on a nightly basis. I’m afraid to invite friends over, because not only does the house reek of booze consistently, but I don’t want them to think I need pity to compensate for a drunken and negligent mother who buys me overtly infuriating gifts to make up for it.

What about all the times I asked for ridiculous absurdities, just to see if you’d say no? Did you honestly think I wanted or needed a home theater installed into our basement that played nothing but My Little Pony? You hate My Little Pony; I hate My Little Pony, that theater hasn’t been used since we got it. You bought a suit for my fucking cat, mother. Not only a suit, but a suit made of the finest threads and carefully handmade by some famous designer. What was the point of that? To mock the pain I was feeling over losing a pet, my best friend? Parents need to put their foot down every so often, you know? What if I wasn’t able to comprehend how the world works, and once I left the discomfort of this home, I expected everything my way, the way spoiled children in my position often do? Would you have let me live with that disappointment? I used to want to be everything like you, I used to wear your lipstick and your stupid scarves just so I’d look more like you, but now that I’m older I honestly hope I become nothing like you.  
This letter has been complied of too many questions for my liking, but I do want you to think about them thoroughly. And I hope, I pray to whatever powers that may be, that when you read this far, you’ll hurt. I hope your guilt will be equal to the fear, concern, and confusion I myself have felt for you since the day I could comprehend exactly how many issues you had.

Your ever-loving daughter,

Rose Lalonde”

Rose read it over once, then twice, before sealing it away in a small pink envelope and standing. She knew that once her mother read it, she’d be devastated. She’d be upset. She’d probably loathe herself and feel like a failure, and Rose found comfort in knowing that’s how she’d feel.  
“Mom.” The girl called as she entered the room, raising her voice over the running vacuum. Her mother who had the same shade of blonde hair, and brighter eyes, looked over with a grin. “Rose, ba-“ she paused to hiccup. “Baby!” Rose frowned at the fact that her mother was most likely already inebriated. It was only two in the afternoon. The taller blonde shut off her vacuum and happily bounced over to her daughter with her heels clacking against the tile in time with her steps. “Is somethign the m- matter, you look a little pivved. Peeved.”

“No, mom. Everything’s fine.” Nothing was fine. That’s why she wrote the letter.

“Oh! Well, that’s always good! What do you walnut- want- for lunch?” she asked, scampering to the kitchen. Rose bit her lip and considered setting the envelope on the head of her mom’s vacuum, or maybe the middle of the floor, and retreating back to her room so her mother might read it in peace. Another part of her mind demanded that she walk into the kitchen and hand the paper to her directly, watch her read it. She decided that’d be the best option for reasons unknown, and made her way to the same room as her mother, who was now babbling on about their options. 

“And I don’t know if you like that or not, but it-“ Rose stepped into the kitchen, wondering if her mother was aware of her overlooking the conversation.

“I know you used to feed them to Jaspers. But that’s okay because-“ She stepped closer, clutching the envelope in hand. Rose stole a quick look at her mother. The woman before her whose face was like an aged mirror. The same almond shaped eyes. The same button nose. The laugh lines of an aged woman who didn’t laugh much anymore, like Rose was sure to get when she was her mother’s age. Yes, Rose stole a glance to her mother and felt… What did she feel? Pity, was her first thought, until she recognized it as guilt.

“He was a good cat, even if he did knock over my-” At the last second, Rose threw her arms around her crazy, drunken, eccentric mother and puller her into a hug. She stopped talking and froze up, unaccustomed to her daughter being affectionate. Eventually, though, her arms snaked around Rose’s middle and the two simply held onto one another for a while, neither speaking, and neither making a move. Once they separated, the older one glanced at Rose, concern vaguely written over her face. “What w’ssat for, Rose?”

“Nothing, mom. I just wanted to tell you I love you.” Her mother’s face broke into a grin and she nodded. 

“I love you too, Rose.”

Rose nodded once and offered a small smile. “I know,” she said before turning and walking back to her room, tearing the envelope up into tiny pieces on her way.


End file.
